From Poppies to Flames

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Tower of London poppies ~ August 2014

From Poppies to Flames by Jan Jones
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Watching the lighting of the Tower moat
I remember four years ago
The first thin stream of poppies
The silence as a thousand strangers stood in the still air
Gripping hands
Aching
Grieving
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Packing the poppies ~ Nov 2014

I was there again on the last day
I saw them dismantled
Packed away until you would
never know there had been a sea of blood

Four years ago. Four years.

In those four years I have lost irreplaceable friends
and so many icons. My history flickering out
Life diminished

A century ago
How many more never returned
Between the thin red line and the torches
Countless lives altered fast and forever

So much waste
And so much waste still
Make it stop

Peace

Not pieces
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Tower of London torches ~ November 2018

Long hot summer

The temperature over the last couple of days reminds me of 1976, when the summer just went on and on. This was me then...

Promenade Summer by Jan Jones

That summer
When boys came up to my room to sit on my bed and
Gulp cold orange straight from the box
When coruscating music ran around the vaulted stone gallery
And seeped into my Indian cotton skirt as I sat cross-legged
Or lay full length on the wide empty floor to listen
When the heat in the park hit ninety and my stifling
Third-floor bedsit was visited by lads whose grants had run out
Or whose girls had got better degrees than they had
And who loved me because I was there and it was the thing to do
That summer

That summer
When I would refill my fridge daily with two quarts of orange
And a four-pack of lager
When I’d go to bed at two and wake every morning at six
When I was high on London and patched its tatters
Into a flame and russet headband
When I shed my skin eagerly and quickly and thought I had nothing left to learn

I went alone once to listen. Queued alone
Without my girlfriends to tell me which music I would enjoy
Paid twenty pence extra and slipped with guilty pleasure
Into a promenade large with sharing
Immediate with excitement
I rode a boy out of the hall
Made love to him in the park and lost him
Glad really to be alone
That summer
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A different way with words

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I have been  busy getting ready for the next RNA Conference, but took time off a couple of weeks ago to visit a small, but perfectly formed, exhibition in a shop - yes, a shop, in South Audley Street, London.

Information is about it here and it has been so popular that it is on until the end of July.

The exhibition is by textile (amongst other things) Rosalind Wyatt. One window holds inspirations and the tools of her trade

"If Shoes Could Talk"

The other window contains a beautiful exhibit of Georgian shoes set in a living garden. At the back of the shop, a recording of Bill Nighy explaining the story of the girl who inspired the piece can be listened to from the comfort of a deep armchair.

Rosalind paints, appliqués and embroiders words onto her pieces. They are tender, thought-provoking, and quite, quite beautiful.

Rosalind Wyatt

My next serial involves a textile artist, so it was especially useful and interesting for me to visit this gallery of words, but you don't need an excuse. Really.

Back and forth - and on

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Don't my books look nice on the shelf?

Hectic - but very nice - few days travelling around, supporting, promoting, and revisiting.

First it was down to the Big Green Bookshop in Wood Green, not a million miles from where I grew up. I've followed these guys since they first conceived the idea of opening a bookshop, so it was smashing to meet them in person and not just exchange words over the ether.

The evening was spent at a tweet-up organised by Scott Pack, designed to help the shop over a sticky patch. Wine, food, books, good company and a rather fine mobile bookseller - what's not to like?

Next morning I treated myself to a lovely ramble around where I spent my childhood. It's always a tiny bit worrying going back, but I needn't have worried. True, the primary school had been replaced by a much bigger building, and the large asphalt playground had been covered with play structures, divided play areas, and outdoor toys, but there were still happy kids all over the place and it was so colourful and joyous that it was impossible to look at it without smiling.

My road and those around it still seem to be the same safe streets they always were, even if two houses in three now have loft extensions and three out of four front lawns have been replaced by hard standing for cars.

The church where I spent so many freezing Sundays was the biggest surprise. I'd expected gentle decline - but it has expanded! The old pews have been replaced by stackable chairs to transform the nave into a vibrant, multi-use space. There are bright banners around, toys for children's sessions and a second hall and bigger kitchen built onto the side. The organ had wheezed its last, but in removing it they had discovered the most beautiful rose window. And the Lady Chapel is the same calm, traditional chapel that it always was. So lovely to find another instance of positive, thriving change. (Mind you, when they said they would contact me later as a source of archive memories, I felt just a tad ancient...)

But the very best part of the trip for me was walking through the small park where I spent so much of my time when younger. And I discovered that the muddy path where we had always been able to get down to the brook and fish for tiddlers was still there, the brook itself was still unfenced, the shallow, pebble-bottomed water was still a glorious magnet for today's kids. Colour me very happy.

And after all that, it was time finally to head for Reading to celebrate the launch of my lovely friend Julie Cohen's book Getting Away With It. Masses of people in Reading Central Library drinking fizz, eating ice cream (you have to read the book to understand why) and cheering her on. Hope it sells gazillions, Julie!

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Greenwich

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Sometimes, organising the RNA Conference is a seriously fun job. Last week, for instance, I was in Greenwich speccing out the Queen Anne building,

the Painted Hall (no, we can't afford to eat there, but it had to be checked, right?),


the Queen Mary Undercroft (we might be able to eat there - wonder if they do beans on toast?),

and the view from the Trafalgar Tavern (we can afford to eat there).

And all on the hottest day of the summer so far in London.
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Archibald, Katie and Kate

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Nice couple of days in London. First at the Intimate Portrait free exhibition at the British Museum studying 18th/19th Century informal portraits and miniatures where I fell totally in love with Archibald Skirving - or at least, with his self-portrait.


[Archibald Skirving, Self-portrait, 1790. On loan from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery]


Then to the March meeting of the RNA where a packed room heard all about how to endear ourselves to our publicists (should we be in the fortunate position of having one).

Highlight of the meeting for me, though, was that my friend Kate Thomson was awarded this year's Katie Fforde Bursary for unpublished RNA members who really deserve to have made it by now. Go, Kate!

(I have serious frock-envy, but I still love you.)
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Mostly London

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It's nice to escape now and again. Yesterday's escape was to the Sugar and Slavery exhibition at the London Docklands Museum for the next book. A couple of the prints really 'spoke' to me - and when the lights went out and the voices started speaking from all around the gallery... Wow. Very effective indeed!



And then it was on to Brick Lane where my RNA friend Jean Fullerton was having her launch party for No Cure For Love. Lovely bookshop, lovely people, very nice wine and food, and Jean sold out in minutes!

I Love London

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Now, I know I've lived in East Anglia for nearly thirty years, but London has always been my city.

It's where I was born, where I did all my growing up. It's in my bones. It puts a fizz in my blood like nowhere else in the world.

And it has its moments of sheer, unexpected surprise.

This looks like the interior of any church, looking out towards the garden, right?

But it isn't. Because this is St Dunstan in the East, in the heart of London, and this photo was taken from the outside looking in
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The tiny church, bombed beyond reasonable repair during WW2, has been turned into a city garden. Instead of being demolished for redevelopment, it is now a small oasis surrounded by office blocks
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I love London.








PS - thanks to Fiona Harper for directing my feet there
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